Q: You know what car Richie drove, don’t you?
A: I don’t remember the make.
Q: But you know it.
A: It was the hottest car in school. I was with Billy and Bobby once when they dragged it.
Q: With them? Was anyone else along?
A: I don’t think so.
Q: Did you usually go out alone with the Coolidges?
A: There might have been someone else. Probably Roger. I don’t remember, because it was so long ago.
Q: What happened during the drag race?
A: Just a drag race.
Q: There was no accident?
A: Not…I don’t think so.
Q: What were you going to say?
A: Pardon?
Q: You started by saying “not.” Were you going to say “not then”? Was there another time when you were with the Coolidges and they dragged Richie and there was an accident?
A: I don’t think so.
Q: Don’t think so or there wasn’t?
A: I don’t know. I’m all confused. I would remember an accident, wouldn’t I?
Q: You told me that you couldn’t remember what happened that night, because you were drunk.
A: Yes.
Q: So there could have been a drag race with Richie on Monroe.
A: I’m awful tired. I don’t think I’ll be any good anymore today.
“You’re very quiet this evening,” Shindler said.
Esther turned away from the window and looked at Shindler. He was smiling. It made her feel worse. She knew that she was letting them down by not remembering and here he was, being so kind to her, as if it didn’t matter.
“I’m just tired,” she said.
“I can understand that. These sessions must not be very pleasant for you. Both Dr. Hollander and I appreciate how hard you’re trying.”
Shindler eased the car into the exit lane of the freeway and Esther stared down at her hands. She was tired and she was low. The thought of spending the night in her apartment, alone, left her empty inside. She wished she didn’t get so depressed after the sessions. She looked forward to them so much that each time they ended she felt as if she had lost something.
The apartment house loomed ahead and Esther let her eyelids close for a moment. Roy parked in front of the door. She didn’t want him to leave her. She remembered that he had mentioned that he was hungry earlier. She wondered…
“Do you…? Would you want to come in? I could fix some spaghetti.”
Shindler was surprised by the invitation, but pleased that she had given it. During the last few sessions he had noticed that she was less tense in his presence.
She expected him to turn her down. It was foolish anyway. She was a poor cook. What would they talk about? She began to regret that she had asked him. Then he accepted and she was terrified that the evening would be a disaster.
Shindler paid the baby-sitter and Esther went into the kitchen to cook the meal. The baby was asleep for the night. Shindler asked her if there was a store nearby where he could buy some wine. Esther didn’t know. She didn’t buy wine like that for drinking with a meal. She felt foolish. Shindler said he would go out and find a store. When he was gone, she changed into the outfit he had purchased for her. She did not realize how inappropriate it looked for the occasion.
“You look very nice,” Shindler said when he returned. She blushed, the reaction he had been hoping for. She was so easy to manipulate. Most people were, if you had the time to study them.
Esther set the table and Shindler poured the wine. She felt that everything she was doing was wrong. Besides John, she had never really cooked for a man. Never had the type of relationship with a man that would call for that type of occasion. It had been mostly country and western bar dates, then back to someone’s bedroom in some motel or maybe not even the preliminary hours at the bar. And she had never been with anyone like Shindler. He was so intelligent and he talked at times about things that she didn’t understand.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked her after they had finished eating. The wine had relaxed her and made her a little giddy.
“I’m feeling good,” she replied. He helped her carry the dishes into the narrow kitchen and their hips touched. The feel of him that close excited her and he noticed the reaction.
“You look very pretty tonight,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said and looked away from him, frightened by the thoughts that were suddenly flooding her. She remembered her dream and felt guilty about the desire she felt. She started to wash a dish, to distract herself, but he took it out of her hands and turned off the water. She looked up at him. He was so tall. He was ugly, yet she did not see that. She saw what he wanted her to see. What she wanted to see. A father to take care of her. Someone to tell her what to do.
He stroked her hair. This was so easy.
“You wore this dress specially for me?”
She answered him in a whisper so low he could barely hear her. He stroked her chin and lifted it gently so that she had to look at his eyes.
He took her hand and led her, like a child, into the bedroom. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain that he could hear. She felt like liquid inside. He removed her clothes and she knew if he touched her, she would melt away.
Shindler made her lie on the bed and ran his hand across her body. Her breasts were full and her nipples taut. He was becoming aroused, but even his desire was under control. Her eyes were closed tight and he watched her clinically.
Esther moaned and arched under his touch. He was above her and in her and around her. The pleasure was unbearable. It had never been like this for her before. With other men, even John, there had been the smell of sweat and a knowledge of where she was every moment that they were inside her. With Roy, she was lost.
Shindler felt her quiver and relax. He came and stayed inside her. She was crying. He kissed her and held her. Her tears mingled with the sweat on his shoulder. He soothed her and petted her, as if she was a dog. It would be much easier now.
7
“Look, Ted, the Communists have got to be stopped. I would rather do it in Vietnam than Disneyland.”
“Jesus, I don’t believe this,” Ted Wolberg said. “Who writes your scripts, the John Birch Society?”
Ted and Bobby Coolidge were passing the time at George Rasmussen’s apartment. As usual, Ted and George were arguing about the war. Bobby was paying little attention to what was being said, because he had heard it all before. It seemed that all anyone ever talked about anymore was Vietnam.
“What do you think, Bobby?” Ted asked.
Bobby looked at Ted. He did not like to get drawn into academic discussions, because he did not feel secure enough yet to venture into the intellectual arena. He never spoke in class. With his friends, he was a listener. The trouble was, with Vietnam the topic, he was considered the resident expert. He was always being put on the spot and he was expected to be knowledgeable in every area connected with the war. In fact, he knew less about Vietnam and its history and politics than George, who had spent his army time in Washington, D. C., or Ted, whose hobby was Far Eastern studies and who was a political science major.
“I think you’re both right, in a way,” he answered cautiously. “I don’t think we should be over there…”)
“See,” Ted interrupted. “That’s just what the two P.O.W.s who were just released said.”
“…but I don’t agree when you say that the country is like Nazi Germany. I mean, there aren’t any secret police coming to take you away for your clearly subversive statements, are there?”
“You are being fooled by the repressive tolerance practiced by the military-industrial complex that runs this country. Marcuse says…”
“Who?” George asked.
Ted was about to answer when the doorbell rang. George answered it and returned to the living room with Sarah. She had a letter in her hand. When he saw it, Bobby’s heart started to pound and his lips felt suddenly dry. The envelope looked like the type the school used to send out grades. It was intersession and Bobby had been expecting his final first semester marks all week.